


That Nebulous Thing Called Love

by Dee_Moyza



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Gen, Mid-Canon, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:14:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Moyza/pseuds/Dee_Moyza
Summary: Celes encounters a very different Terra in Mobliz than the one she thought she knew.  Frustrated by Terra's unwillingness to fight, Celes ponders the reason behind it, and her own interpretation of love, and is eventually moved toward understanding by an innocent gesture in the dead of night.
Relationships: Tina Brandford | Terra Brandford & Celes Chere
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	That Nebulous Thing Called Love

"I guess I really don't have the strength to fight anymore," Terra whispered, more to herself than to anyone in particular. She burrowed deeper beneath her blanket, though not far enough to hide the bruise blooming across her cheekbone, and glanced up at Celes, as if seeking confirmation. Instead, Celes bit her lip and shook her head, fighting the urge to seize Terra by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, to coax the fire inside her back to life.

Terra sighed and sat up, then looked around her tiny room, at the little faces peering over the edge of the bed making sure "Mama" was all right. She turned back to Celes with a sad smile. "I'm staying here," she said. "I wouldn't be any help to you now. And… the children need me."

"They need a future," Celes replied, "and if we don't start fighting back, they won't have one. Look at what Kefka's already taken, from them, from us, from the world. And he's still not satisfied. If we don't stop him, he'll finish what he started."

One of the children whimpered and reached for Terra. She drew the little girl close and smoothed her hair, whispering reassurances. Celes tilted her head and frowned; that such tenderness could come from hands hardened by battle seemed impossible to her, yet it came so naturally to Terra. A Magitek knight turned mother figure—it would be comical if it weren't so absurd.

 _Would these children still feel this way if they knew what Terra was?_ The thought struck Celes like a thunder spell and began to grow into an idea. _Would they trust her if they knew she'd served the Empire? Would they love her knowing she'd once been Kefka's pet? Or would they run her out, leaving her no choice but to fight?_ Celes cleared her throat.

"Look at you," she said, a hint of derision creeping into her voice, "the gentle mother, now. You've certainly come a long way from—" She stopped, the words lodging in her throat as three pairs of inquisitive eyes turned toward her and she saw past their childish curiosity to the pain and fear beneath. They'd lost enough, already; if she took Terra from them, especially in this way, she'd be no better than Kefka.

"Yes, I have," Terra said, her expression indicating she'd understood what Celes was going to say, "and that's why I'm not ready to give this up. Maybe it's selfish, but it feels good. It feels right."

"I understand," Celes said, though she didn't in the slightest.

"And I understand what you're fighting for. Really, I do. But I don't think I can be any help. Not now. Maybe after a little more time has passed…"

 _We might not have that time!_ Celes swallowed her retort and nodded. She pushed back her chair and started to rise, wincing at injuries sustained during her most recent battle, crying out and bracing herself against the bed when her right leg buckled beneath her.

In an instant, Terra flung off her blanket and scrambled to her side, helping her back into the chair. The children darted to the corner of the room to watch through wide eyes.

"It's nothing serious," Celes muttered through clenched teeth. "I simply haven't healed myself yet."

"Why not?" Terra placed her hands on Celes' knee and administered a cure spell. "You'll only hurt yourself further."

"I wanted to make sure you were all right. We both did. Sabin carried you in here, and I followed. I wasn't going to continue like this, you know."

"No, I don't know." Terra met her eyes. "You've always pushed yourself, Celes. Too hard."

"I'm well aware of my own limits. Besides, I never had much choice." Celes set her jaw and swallowed hard to clear an unfamiliar tightness in her throat. "I don't have anything else. No family, no home to hide in. Fighting is all I know. It's all I have."

Terra nodded at the children and watched them file out of the room. "That isn't true," she said quietly. "You have me. I'm your friend, aren't I? At the very least, I am—was—your comrade. That counts for something, doesn't it?" When Celes didn't answer, she went on. "And you have Sabin. I know he thinks of you fondly, like a friend, maybe even like family. And then there's…there's…"

"I haven't found anyone else. Not yet."

"But they are out there!"

"I haven't a clue. They might all be dead already."

"Don't think like that! They're fighters, just like you." Terra rose on shaky legs and retrieved a basin of water and a cloth from beside the bed. She dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and began to wipe the dirt from Celes' face. Celes flinched and drew away from her touch, determined to reassert her self-reliance. Terra continued, undeterred, whispering to her as she did to the children, all but daring Celes to knock her hand away.

Even if she had wanted to, Celes wouldn't have been able to. The wet cloth was so warm, Terra's hand so gentle, her voice so soothing, that Celes quickly gave in and closed her eyes with a sigh.

"You need to rest," Terra said.

"No time," Celes mumbled.

"Nonsense. You can't keep going like this. If you do, you'll die, and _then_ who will stop Kefka, hmm? No, you and Sabin are going to stay the night. I insist." She wrung out the cloth and dabbed at a scrape on Celes' cheek. "It's the least I can do to thank you for helping me. For helping _us_."

Celes wanted to tell her that the best way she could thank them was by rejoining the fight against Kefka, but Terra's ministrations had dulled her tongue and left her drowsy. She offered only a mild protest when Terra led her to the bed and pulled the blanket over her, and sleep stole up on her before Terra had even left the room.  
  


* * *

  
Celes sat at a rickety table and watched Sabin lift children on his arms and regale them with stories from his travels. He truly had an indomitable spirit, and Celes envied him that.

"Sabin is incredible," Terra said, laughing and setting a bowl and mug before Celes."I don't know where he gets so much energy. And the kids really like him!"

"I'm not surprised," Celes said, accepting her dinner with a grin, "considering he's pretty much an overgrown child, himself."

"Right?" Terra sat in the chair opposite Celes and sighed. "I missed him. I missed you. I don't think I knew how much until I saw you both again. If you see the others… out there, somewhere… please give them my regards, and tell them I remember them fondly."

Celes swallowed a spoonful of stew. "So, there's no changing your mind?"

"I'm afraid not. Like I told you earlier, I feel like I'm on the verge of understanding something very important. I fear that if I leave here, I may never know what that is." Terra looked away and let a few moments pass in silence. "All I know is that I feel something here that I've never felt anywhere else before. I think it has to do with the kids. Just by looking at them, my heart fills up so much it feels like it's going to burst. And when I think of anything bad happening to them, to any one of them, my chest gets so tight that I can't breathe. I feel as if I wouldn't be able to live without them.

"It's a strange feeling, but it's not at all unpleasant. In fact, it feels good. So very, very good, and so very _right_." She paused and brought a finger to her lips, thinking. "Do you think… do you think this is… love?"

Celes set down her spoon and stared into her bowl. Love? Everything Terra described sounded so similar to the way she'd come to feel about Cid, especially after waking from her coma and discovering that he had been caring for her all along: how grateful she was for his hospitality and affection, how close he felt to what other people called family. How desperate she felt when he fell ill, and how his death devastated her, leaving her clutching at shards of hope that slipped past her fingers into thin air, grasping at denial and delusion and anything else to fill the gaping void where her heart had been, a void that continued to grow until she felt she couldn't breathe, couldn't _live_ any longer. How she couldn't bear to leave behind the little raft he'd built—over weeks of labor, even as his health was failing—even after she'd reached shore, and how she spent a day and a night at the water's edge, unwilling to part with the last piece of him she had. Had that been love?

If so, love _hurt_. Why did people seek it so fervently? Why did poets write about it, why did bards sing about it, why did young people sigh about it, if it was only another kind of pain? A pain far worse than any she'd endured in battle, in that there was no bandage, no spell, no salve to ease the emptiness it ultimately left behind.

"So," Terra ventured again, pulling Celes back into the present and reducing her grief to a dull throb in her chest, "do you think it is? Do you think this is love?"

"I wouldn't know," Celes answered flatly, and took a swig from her mug. Catching Terra's eyes over the rim, disheartened and confused, she softened. "But maybe it's something everyone has to figure out for themselves. If it feels like love, then it is. Maybe it's just that simple."

Terra beamed and clasped her hands in front of her. "Wouldn't that be odd? Something so simple, and it's eluded me forever! I hope you're right, Celes. I dearly, dearly hope you're right."

Celes' lips turned up at one corner. Terra's joy was contagious, her optimism encouraging, even if Celes didn't quite share her conviction. "And I hope you're right," she said, "about the others still being alive out there."

"I am, I know it." Terra patted Celes' hand, then began, with Sabin's help, to corral the children for bedtime preparations, leaving Celes to finish her dinner alone.  
  


* * *

  
"A bedroll?" Terra snatched the roll from beneath Celes' arm. "Celes, you mustn't!"

"It's a bit more comfortable than sleeping on the bare floor." Celes reached for her bedroll, but Terra clutched it tighter and angled her body away from Celes.

"You won't be sleeping on the floor. Take my bed."

"And where will you sleep?"

"The chairs are more comfortable than they look. I sleep in one whenever one of the kids gets sick, and the chairs in here are next to the fireplace, so I'll be sure to stay warm."

Celes narrowed her eyes. "Why are you being so solicitous?"

"Sabin has taken Duane's bed," Terra went on, looking away, "and I didn't think it would be fair for you to sleep on the floor, especially since both of you are heading out tomorrow."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Gratitude. I'm so thankful you drove Humbaba away. He terrifies the children, and I shudder to think of what he could do to what's left of Mobliz, or to the field where we grow our food. You and Sabin were a tremendous help, and I need to repay that however I can."

When Celes said nothing, Terra glanced at her, then cast her gaze to the floor. "There's also a bit of guilt involved," she added. "I care about these children. A lot. And I've learned so much here, so many basic tasks I never thought I'd need to know. I've learned how to keep house and prepare meals, I've learned how to comfort the children when they are sad, how to tend to them when they are ill. But… the more I learn here, the more I forget how to fight, and the less I want to remember how.

"So, I thought, maybe I could help in some other way. Maybe by giving you and Sabin a meal and a place to stay the night, that would still be helpful? I can't fight Kefka directly, not now. But if I take care of the warriors who can, I can do my part. Right?"

 _That's not how it works!_ The general in Celes wanted to scold Terra, to berate her for losing her will to fight, for growing soft in her pursuit of love, but Celes' all-too-human heart envied her. Terra had found a place to belong and people who cared for her; she found a sense of purpose in caring for them; and she'd even slipped the burden of remembering what she had done in the name of the Empire, and the dream-dwelling ghosts that came with such memories. In this ruined world, Terra had somehow made another life for herself, and found a chance to start anew. Why should she jeopardize that to scour the world for a madman?

Celes wouldn't either, she realized, if she had been so fortunate, and her anger ebbed. She sighed and sat heavily on the bed.

"Right," she said at last. "You are under no obligation to fight. You belong to no one but yourself now, and only you can determine what you are capable of. I appreciate you taking us in for the night; your hospitality won't be forgotten."

"You're welcome." Terra's smile did not reach her eyes. "Now, please, Celes, try to get some more rest. I'd like to know I'm seeing you off at your strongest." She pulled a coarse blanket around herself and settled into a chair. "I'll be right here, if you need anything."

Still relatively rested from the afternoon, Celes found sleep elusive. She stared at the ceiling, planning her and Sabin's next move, taking mental stock of their rations and the state of their equipment. _Once a general, always a general_ , she thought with a grim smile, and though she hated how she had developed this mindset, she took great comfort in parsing practical minutiae, in thinking up rational solutions to the problems she encountered, in bringing the wild and fearsome world before her under something resembling control.

The figures and plans she had at the moment, however, were too paltry to occupy her mind for long, and she eventually gave herself over to sleep in fits and starts, tossing and turning in a bed that, though small, was just that much bigger than her bedroll to feel empty, to leave her feeling vulnerable to threats, real or imagined. After waking from a nightmare clutching for a sword that wasn't there, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, then leaned against the headboard with a soft groan. She scanned the room for her belongings, intent on slipping away to find a suitable spot to unfurl her bedroll, but in the flickering light of the fireplace, she could only make out a few pieces of furniture, and Terra.

Still wrapped in her blanket, Terra's head drooped toward her chest at an odd angle, and one small pale foot dangled from the chair. That she had not fallen to the floor yet was a minor miracle, and how she could be nearly as comfortable as she claimed to be was a mystery. Exasperation rose in Celes' chest, but somewhere around her heart, it was tempered with pity, then guilt.

"Terra," she said, quietly but firmly. Terra snorted and shifted in the chair, and Celes called to her again, until she cracked one eye open. The other followed quickly, and she sat up straight, asking Celes whether anything was the matter.

"No, nothing, at least with me. But you look uncomfortable there."

"Oh no, I'm fine." Terra drew both her feet beneath her and the blanket tighter around herself. "Don't worry about me. Get some rest."

"It's hard to rest when one feels guilty. When one feels as if they've put another out."

"Celes…"

Celes moved to the far side of the bed and indicated the empty space with a nod. "There's enough room," she said, then added with a grin, "You're not nearly as large as you seem to believe."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Celes watched Terra discard her blanket and crawl into bed. Perhaps her presence, her weight, would make Celes feel less alone, less _open_. "You need your rest, too. After all, you have just as much work to do tomorrow as Sabin and I do. Maybe even more."

"It isn't work at all," Terra said, snuggling into her side of the pillow. "I do it because I want to. Because it feels right. Because I can't imagine _not_ being here for the children."

"Because you love them."

"If that's what love means, then yes." 

Celes listened to Terra's breathing become slow and even, then turned away from her. "If that's what love is," she whispered, through a tightness in her throat, "then I've no right to ask you to leave. I've no right to cause the pain love leaves behind." No spell for it, no salve, just an aching emptiness that brought tears to even a battle-hardened general's eyes in those dark small hours when the rest of the world slept. An emptiness that left her cold and vulnerable and _exhausted_. An ache from which there was no respite but to push it down with more urgent matters, more dangerous matters, and the wounds that came with them—visible wounds, immediate and treatable, either by healing or by death.

She hoped Terra would be spared that side of love, and she swore to fight to that end. She would carry on and defeat Kefka, for the sake of the world, for the sake of the children of Mobliz, for the sake of Terra's heart. 

She was hovering near the edge of sleep when she felt Terra move beside her, and she started awake when Terra draped an arm over her waist. From what Celes could tell, Terra was lost in dreams, mumbling soft nonsense, her breath hot against the back of Celes' neck. Celes shivered at the warmth, but found herself drawn toward it, toward the comfort and security of another body close to hers, closing the vulnerability between her back and the rest of the world. She briefly considered lifting Terra's arm off of her, but when Terra sighed and snuggled closer, Celes abandoned the idea and let her hand rest against Terra's, pulling her close and holding her there.

And in that moment, in the darkest hour of night, Celes felt something shift inside of her. The emptiness left behind by Cid's death and her comrades' disappearances began to soften at the edges, then recede, as a gentle warmth slowly took its place. For the first time she could recall, Celes felt safe. Her heart relaxed and her body soon followed, and the curtain of sleep descended on her mind quietly and gently, far removed from the violent crash of exhaustion to which she'd grown accustomed.

There was still no spell or salve to heal the pain of having loved and lost, but perhaps, Celes thought, slipping toward a dream, love is its own cure. Maybe that's why it was so fervently sought.

Maybe… she was beginning to understand.  
  


* * *

  
"I'm sorry I can't go with you," Terra said, handing Celes and Sabin each a bundle of food, "but I truly feel that I am of more use here, at the moment."

"Don't worry about it," Sabin said, stretching. "You just take care of those kids. We're going to need them to rebuild, after we take down Kefka!"

"Oh, I will. I'll make sure they grow up healthy and strong for just that purpose." She turned to Celes. "I promise. That will be my contribution to this fight."

Celes nodded. "An important one, indeed."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. I was afraid you were disappointed with me."

"Confused, perhaps. Definitely concerned. But not disappointed. Not anymore."

"Anymore?" Terra tilted her head.

"You helped me understand something. What you're doing here is every bit as powerful as fighting. Protect these children; protect yourself."

Terra blinked at her, then smiled and hugged her and Sabin. "You'll come back, though, when you can? I'd like to have you visit, and I'm sure the kids would be happy to see you again, too."

"When we can." 

After a few more words of farewell, Celes and Sabin left Mobliz, and for a while, neither of them spoke. In the relative silence, broken only by the whistling of the wind across the desolate landscape, Celes concentrated on the sounds of her boots on the gravel, evidence of progress, though she did not know exactly to where.

"You know," Sabin said at last, investigating the contents of the bundle Terra had given him, "it sure was nice seeing Terra again, but I never would've figured her for the motherly type."

"Neither would I," Celes said.

"It suits her, though, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it does, but I can't quite say why."

"I can. She's got a big heart, a kind heart. It takes a lotta love to fill a heart like that. I'm glad she found it."

"Love?"

"What else do you call it? Those kids love her, and she loves them. She'd do anything for them, except leave them. Looks like love to me." Sabin pulled a piece of bread from the bundle and began eating. "Love isn't just roses and poems, you know."

"I don't know _what_ love is," Celes said with a dry laugh. "Sometimes it's pain, sometimes it's comfort. Sometimes it's simply someone beside you."

"Heh, you got it. It's confusing."

She looked at him. "What would you know about love?"

Sabin grew quiet, sadness dulling his eyes. "Enough to know it makes people do strange things." He stared straight ahead, seemingly at a point far beyond the horizon, his jaw tight, his lips set in a thin line. Celes said nothing and let him wrestle with whatever memory haunted him, until he blinked, shook his head, and smiled. 

"Let's hope the others haven't done anything so unexpected by the time we find them," he went on, the usual jauntiness back in his voice, "or it might just be you and me for the long haul."

Celes frowned, considering the possibility, then dismissed it with a sly grin. "I don't think we need to worry about that. Can you imagine Edgar settling down with a bunch of children? Or Locke, or Setzer?"

Sabin chuckled. "You're right. I don't think those guys'll ever change." He finished the bread, brushed the crumbs off his hands, and broke into a jog. "But I'd still feel better seeing it for myself. C'mon Celes, we've got a world to save, and all our friends to find!"

Celes nodded and picked up her pace. Apprehension still clung to her heart with icy claws, but its grasp didn't seem so tight anymore. There was room inside her now, for optimism, for possibilities, for affection. Perhaps it wasn't foolish to be hopeful now and again. Perhaps her comrades really were all still alive out there, and together they would defeat Kefka and banish the despair he wrought.

For the world. For the future. For that nebulous thing called love.


End file.
